


keep calm &

by punk_rock_yuppie



Series: Hartmon Week 2016 [1]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Day One - Soulmates, Fluffy, Hartmon Week 2016, M/M, Silly, Soulmates AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-10 05:05:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6941038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punk_rock_yuppie/pseuds/punk_rock_yuppie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hartley’s hatred for the shirt is immediately illogical, irrational, and just downright dumb.</p>
<p>And yet...</p>
            </blockquote>





	keep calm &

**Author's Note:**

> here it is, my contribution to day one of hartmon week 2016! not beta'd, enjoy!

Hartley’s hatred for the shirt is immediately illogical, irrational, and just downright dumb. And yet, he can’t help the way irritation swells inside his chest as the once dull gray world hurtles into color—specifically, the sharp red of that _stupid_ shirt. It clings to the chest of a moderately attractive guy, and Hartley can admit the t-shirt and blazer combination is something that gets him a little weak in the knees, when it’s on the right guy and when it’s not a shirt that proudly proclaims **_KEEP CALM AND HAN SHOT FIRST_**.

Hartley isn’t sure why he’s so annoyed so instantly—besides the fact that the explosion of color is bringing one hell of a headache in its wake.  Beyond that, there’s really no concrete, proper reason to have an immediate distaste for the shirt and the man wearing it. Hartley reasons silently to himself, ignoring the shocked expression the guy is aiming his way, that it’s the sheer unprofessionalism of it all. When he’d shown up to interview with Wells _and_ when he’d shown up for his first day, Hartley had made sure his slacks were sharp and creased just right, and that his shirt definitely matched his eyes without drawing too much attention anywhere.

To wear this, a graphic tee shirt the guy probably got from Amazon or something, is an affront to the elite atmosphere that is S.T.A.R. Labs.

It sounds weak even to Hartley’s own ears.

-

Cisco—because that is his name and Hartley can’t bring himself to forget it—wears the shirt as often as possible, probably solely for the reason it drives Hartley nuts. Some soulmate, huh? Sure, Hartley had been prickly to start off with, and okay maybe he’s still trying to figure this whole thing out, but at least Cisco could spare him the secondhand embarrassment of watching that red shirt parade around the halls of the labs.

Hartley tries everything: he not so subtly approaches Cisco with a pair of scissors intending to snip an irreversible tear in the stupid red fabric; he purposefully tumbles over his own feet and tries to spill some chemical or another across the garish, blocky font; he tries throwing it in the trash, one day when Cisco strips it off as he works on his latest project, overwhelmed by the summer heat clinging to the walls of S.T.A.R. Labs.

It comes to a head finally when Hartley just doesn’t have the words to express how angry the shirt makes him. He walks in late to his shift—another rousing breakfast with his parents, full of tense silence and unspoken sham—to see Cisco occupying the cortex alone. Caitlin nor Robbie nor Wells are around, not even the various blank faces in lab coats that Hartley never got to know—just Cisco, minding his own business.

Wearing that _fucking shirt_.

Hartley is moving before he can think better of it. He stomps across the cortex and shoves Cisco to face him. He shushes Cisco’s indignant squawk and grips the hem of the shirt. He ignores Cisco’s complaining, _“c’mon, dude, don’t ruin the shirt,”_ and instead hikes the shirt up to reveal the soft lines of Cisco’s stomach and chest. He keeps going until the shirt bunches up under Cisco’s armpit, and then Hartley gives his soulmate a sharp, pointed stare.

Cisco raises his arms obediently and the shirt practically comes flying off. Before it hits the ground, Hartley is nearly sealing himself against Cisco’s body and kissing him desperately. It feels good, not only to have the shirt out of the way but to finally give into the ache in his chest that’s hung heavy ever since Cisco’s first day. Meeting his soulmate and _not_ immediately getting close had hurt every day, until now.

Kissing Cisco feels right; it feels as though all the planets are aligning and every piece of Hartley’s life is falling into place. He kisses Cisco and can taste fate and destiny and kismet on his tongue and it’s silly, but Harley feels choked up for a split second. His mind drifts to all the talks his parents had given him about being wrong, about being gay, about it being a phase. If nothing else, Hartley thinks, at least Cisco being his soulmate _proves_ it wasn’t a phase.

Cisco pulls back and taps the lens of Hartley’s glasses with a quirky grin. “You’re zoning out on me, dude.”

Hartley glares at him. “Don’t call me dude,” he says, mostly because it’s expected of him. He relishes the annoyed pout Cisco gives him.

“Babe?” Cisco tries again as he leans into Hartley’s space, cups his chin and presses their foreheads together.

Hartley blushes as he kisses Cisco again. “Babe is good.”

-

Eventually, the shirt is relegated to only being allowed at home. Even with most of their differences set aside and even with getting mutual orgasms on a regular basis, the shirt _still_ drives Hartley crazy whenever Cisco wears it in public. Hartley still can’t articulate why, but he’s lucky enough to have a boyfriend who doesn’t really care, who thinks his obsession with the shirt is kind of stupidly cute.

So, the shirt is banished to the house, only to be worn on lazy evenings and weekends. Cisco wears it every chance he gets and only strips out of it moments before leaving the house. It gets washed so often the red starts to fade into a softly worn reddish-pink; the fabric stretches and thins and is so comforting to touch. It’s after these long rounds of wearing, washing, repeating that Hartley gravitates to the shirt.

One morning he rolls out of bed before Cisco and grabs the first thing he sees: his black boxers, and that damn shirt. He doesn’t feel particularly irritated as he slips it over his head and actually feels happy as the hems of the shirt tickle his skin. He sets about making breakfast—which ends up burned, after Cisco sees him in the shirt and backs him up against the counter and thoroughly distracts him.


End file.
